That City

“That’s the thing about this city…” mused the shorty with a jet black Mohawk and pencil thin mustache. “When you’re up you’re up, but as soon as you’re down it kicks you in the teeth.

The girl in a sparkling gold dress, backless with the thinnest of shoulder straps looked up from where she had been weeping into her open hands. At the beginning of the night she may have been something close to beautiful but her hair was now a mess and her makeup had run like a stream after the snows thawed. From the neck up she was a wreck.

“What? What do you mean?” the poor girl blubbered. Her blue eyes were rimmed red partly from sadness and partly from the rainbow of cocktails she had consumed throughout her night.

“What I mean doll face is… Get in the van!” demanded Mohawk, kind and sweet at first but becoming nasty as the charcoal colored van pulled up.

“Help, help me please!!” screamed the girl in the gold dress but the alleyway at the back of the makeshift casino was empty. The next delivery truck was not due for another couple of hours.

“Shut up!” growled Mohawk and he pulled from his cheapish suit a pistol with silencer attached.

“Help me?” asked gold dress weakly then, a murmur of defeat.

The side door of the van slid open in unusual silence. The girl slowly rose to her feet, defeated and drunk. As soon as she swayed back the Mohawk gave her a kick. Arms and legs flew around as the gold dress lost her balance and flew awkwardly into the waiting void.

“Let’s go!” ordered Mohawk with a click of his ring filled fingers. With finesse and a satisfied smile he joined his companion in the van’s front cab. The hybrid purred to life with a faint whirring and the charcoal vehicle pulled away.

“Calling all officers, the dove is in the cage,” murmured the girl in the gold dress.

There in the darkness of the charcoal’s internal she had transformed from pretend drunk down on her luck into Officer Wentwort, second year undercover. The lapel stitched under the hem of her revealing dress was already at her lips before the van began to drive away. Regrettably there was no response in the ear piece she wore like an earring, Wentwort believed she was on her own. It was Freddy Finkles, nicknamed Mohawk, also known as Pencil for his thin mustache and the pencil he kept hidden in his shoe. She had him fair to cornered, except that she was the one stuck in the van, at that very moment driving out of the intersection that she thought the rest of her team had covered.

“Hey, lady!” came a voice in the dark. One of Freddy’s goons, surprised that the drunken girl they had just kidnapped may not turn out to be as much a damsel in distress as first thought.

There was a click and a flash as that goon attempted to spark a light. That was all Officer Wentwort needed to punch him square in the nose and then sweep the man off his feet. He landed with a loud crash that was followed by a pain-filled groan.

“One down,” stated Wentwort with satisfaction.

She frisked her victim quickly as she felt rather than heard the van slow down.

Clicking the lighter to life her first go the officer searched until she found the gun.

“I would kill for a cigarette,” Wentwort mused, whimsically. Unfortunately the goon's packet was empty.

As he groaned again Wentwort gave him another smack in the nose. In the flickering light that illuminated the van’s interior the officer took some satisfaction in watching the man’s eyes roll back as blood oozed from the nostrils.

“And stay down!” Wentwort ordered as she heard in front the van doors open.

“Hey Gus, no freaky business, you know!” called the voice of the driver.

Wentwort waited in silence. The lighter flame burnt her thumb causing her to drop it.

“Hey Gus, keep her steady!” stated the driver’s voice again. “I’m opening up!”

As the van door slid open the faint light of dusk flooded in to reveal the gurgling figure that was Gus and the nozzle of the pistol that Officer Wentwort held pointed between the driver’s eyes.

“Hey boss…” began the driver as his arms rose skyward.

“Get in the van!” ordered Wentwort.

“What’s the problem?” Mohawk hollered back, real casual like as the van driver hurriedly complied.

Wentwort slid the van door closed and made sure it was secure.

Sliding around the back of the van she came up to the open window where Freddy sat with the seat half reclined.

“I’m the problem,” informed the officer as she lined the gun up with Finkles’ eyes.

Again Wentwort lifted the hem of her dress and brought the lapel mic to her lips.

“All cars, engage! I repeat, engage!” she ordered, urgency obvious. “The dove is IN the cage!”

“I am fairly sure that the pretty gold dove has flown the coop,” laughed Mohawk. “Baby we could have been good together.”

“Eyes off!” growled Wentwort. “And don’t you dare move.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Freddy promised.

Like most crooks though Freddy’s word stank. As soon as Wentwort heard a crackle in her ear he saw for the briefest moment her focus shift. That was all the time that Freddy needed. With one swift move he’d knocked the muzzle wide and shifted his ample stomach and pencil thin mustache over to the driver’s door.

The pencil was half way out his shoe and the Pencil was just as far out the van door when the unmarked sedan pulled up and almost run him over. Wedged in and with nowhere else to go his hands shot up higher than the top of his hair. With a sigh and a shrug the mastermind gave up.

“That’s the thing about this city…” mused Officer Wentwort as she watched with satisfaction the cuffs snapping shut around Freddy Finkles’ wrists. “Well… I am fairly certain Freddy Finkles that you just got kicked in the teeth.”